


Categories Of Touch

by Slow_Burn_Sally



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Demi!Sherlock, M/M, Pining, Sherlock is an idiot, Slow Burn, Smut, mentions of biphobia, the holy trinity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:15:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27914398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slow_Burn_Sally/pseuds/Slow_Burn_Sally
Summary: Sherlock discovers his feelings for John and decides to do something about it.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 13
Kudos: 147





	Categories Of Touch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [emilycare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emilycare/gifts).



> Happy Birthday Em!! I hope your day is lovely and spent doing things you enjoy. Your friendship is so very valuable to me and I am so happy that you're in my life. <3
> 
> This is not beta read, because I wrote this for my beta for her birthday and I couldn't very well ask her to read it, now could I?

Sherlock woke with a frown. He had just drifted off, perhaps an hour before, and now he was jarred from sleep by the sound of John, noisily making tea in the kitchen. John, who had forgotten to get the milk last night as Sherlock had (somewhat politely by his own standards) requested. 

He scowled and rolled over in bed, pulling the covers more tightly around him, and willing the discordant clanging and scraping of John, clumsily making tea and breakfast to subside so that he could get back to sleep. 

The noises continued. Cabinet doors opened and closed. A drawer was noisily pulled out with the accompaniment of clattering silverware. Even the click of the gas stove igniting made Sherlock wince. 

After John had opened the refrigerator door and let it close with a thud for the third time, Sherlock decided he had had enough and rolled out of bed with a groan. He wrapped his robe around himself and padded out on cold, bare feet to the kitchen. John, sturdy and jumper-clad, wearing his Saturday trousers, was facing away from Sherlock, rummaging through yet another cabinet. 

“What in God’s name are you doing,” Sherlock demanded, his voice a low, irritated rumble.

John turned and fixed him with a bright smile “Look who’s finally awake!” he said in his cheerful yet making-a-point tone. “Though you were going to sleep all day. It’s nearly noon.”

“I only fell asleep roughly forty two minutes ago John. And I would have wished to stay asleep, but you decided to cook a bloody Christmas feast in here and it woke me up.” He threw himself into a chair at the kitchen table and pouted. 

John ignored his obvious foul mood and simply continued rummaging in the cabinets. It was then that Sherlock noticed that he’d taken out some eggs, some bread, a tin of beans.  _ Ah  _ , it was one of those days when John got it into his head to  _ feed Sherlock.  _ Sherlock supposed this was mildly endearing, the way that John fussed after him like a mother hen. But this feeding, this tutting, this insisting that Sherlock got to bed, that he took aspirin when he had a pounding headache, that he dressed more warmly when it grew cold, it went against Sherlock’s usual way of doing things. 

His usual way of doing things involved not eating until he felt physical pain, not sleeping until the words on his laptop screen blurred before his eyes, and generally not stopping to rest for any reason until he nearly fell over. 

John, hale and hearty, thick and warm and irritatingly energetic, so full of life, had been valiantly attempting to improve Sherlock’s self care routine for a solid two years now. To his credit, he’d made some small progress. They ate together relatively often, even if John had to insist that Sherlock sit down and take a few distracted bites while they talked over a case. John often made Sherlock tea in the mornings and at teatime, and so Sherlock naturally hydrated a bit more, simply because his flatmate would press a drink into his hands and call him rude if he didn’t have at least a few sips. 

Sherlock knew he should not complain. He knew that John did not deserve all the barbs and slights and general grumpiness that Sherlock threw at him on a regular basis. It was just that Sherlock did not generally enjoy being mothered. 

“You’re not doing a fry up are you?” he asked sullenly. “You know I abhor eating in the mornings.”

“You abhor eating on days that end in ‘y’ Sherlock. If you had your way, you’d simply replace your stomach with a metal tank and refuel at the local petrol station. I am making breakfast, and you are eating some of it if I have to force feed you.” 

“You could try,” Sherlock replied, but he could not help the fond tone that crept into his voice. John did mean well. And to be fair, Sherlock had not eaten since yesterday afternoon. 

Soon the smell of eggs and butter and beans made his salivary glands open up and his stomach grumble. 

“Lestrade called while you were asleep,” John remarked, stirring the beans in a pot on the stove with a spoon while sucking some butter from his thumb. “Said you should swing by about a new case once you’re up.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I assumed he’d be in touch. I heard sirens earlier. Seems the police can’t do a bloody thing without asking me for help.” 

“You love it,” John said, and Sherlock could hear the smile, even though John’s back was turned. 

Sherlock ignored the comment. “You’ll be coming of course,” he said. John always wanted to come to the station with him. He’d been one hundred percent on board with the madcap circus that was Sherlock's consulting detective job since day one. 

“Can’t,” John mumbled around a piece of toast. “Have to go to the clinic for an appointment.” 

Sherlock scoffed. “It can wait. This is more important.” How dare John interrupt their working relationship to care for some dreadfully dull old man with piles or an irritating child with strep throat. 

“Well, I’m glad you see my career as infinitely less important than yours, but despite your opinions, I do actually have to keep this appointment Sherlock, so you’ll just have to go on your own.” John placed a plate, laden with beans on toast and fried eggs in front of Sherlock and tossed a fork down next to it with a clatter. “There, eat some breakfast so you don’t lose consciousness on the cab ride over to the station.” 

Sherlock scowled at him, but had to admit that the food looked and smelled marvelous. He put a forkful of eggs in his mouth and followed it up with a generous bite of beans on toast. John was a fantastic cook, and he suppressed a moan as the buttery eggs and sweet bean flavor mixed deliciously inside his mouth. 

The look of satisfaction on John’s face was clear as day as he went back to the kitchen to fetch his own plate and join Sherlock at the table. They ate together for a few moments in silence, Sherlock picking this and that forkful off the plate with delicate precision, John, shoveling the food into his mouth with the intensity and focus of a man with many years experience eating on the go or between surgeries in uncertain situations. 

It had taken Sherlock a full year to admit to himself that John was his friend. Friends were not really Sherlock’s area so to speak. Neither were lovers. He had so consistently driven everyone away with his razor sharp tongue and relentless deductions of their personal failings that friends did not exactly accumulate in his life as they did in the lives of others. Only a few people remained in an outer orbit around him. People who needed him too much to push him away (Lestrade), or people who liked him despite his personality and hung on for entertainment value, or out of pure masochism (Molly, Mrs. Hudson, John). 

Of the four people (possibly five if one included Mike Stamford, which Sherlock did not) who were still hanging about despite the abuse Sherlock threw at them, John was special. He had gotten the closest. Not only physically, by sharing a flat with Sherlock, but also emotionally. He was sharing Sherlock’s life with him. They lived together, worked together, spent most of the day together. John was a tank. A small, solid man with a practical, humorous outlook on life, he seemed remarkably well suited to put up with Sherlock’s many eccentricities and sharp demands. Unflappable, strong, dedicated, stubborn as all get out. John clung to Sherlock like a burr to his coat sleeve. Hanging on and taking what Sherlock dished out with mostly affable snark in return. 

Of course there were times when Sherlock went too far. When he cut too deep. He could tell, because John would get that wounded look. That flash of surprise that crossed his face when he remembered what Sherlock was truly like beneath his newfound warmth. John would look mildly shocked, that Sherlock could say something so unfeeling, that he could go for the jugular like that, and he’d withdraw, his face crumbling into hurt and disappointment. 

Sherlock hated that look. And he hated that he could not seem to stop causing it to break across John’s features. 

“Let me know what Lestrade says,” John had finished eating in record time and had gotten up to take his plate to the kitchen. He washed his hands quickly and dried them on the blue dish towel hanging off the side of the sink.

“Of course,” Sherlock replied. 

“I’ll see you later,” John said, grabbing his coat and making for the door. “Dinner tonight? I could get takeaway on my way home? Text me!” He was already halfway down the stairs, feet making a quick series of dull thuds as he descended, and just like that, Sherlock was left alone with his swiftly cooling breakfast. 

Yes, John was his friend. Perhaps his only true friend if he were honest with himself. He was also though, a mystery. 

On the surface, John appeared to be the most uncomplicated person you’d ever hope to meet. With his sensible brown shoes and khaki trousers, his endless succession of muted jumpers. He would look at home pushing a tram next to a chatty wife on a walk through the park, or behind a desk as a pencil pusher in one of London’s many corporate office buildings. He was just a man. Like any other. Or at least this is what Sherlock had thought originally. 

And by ‘originally’, he meant during the first ten seconds of seeing John, that day at Saint Barts. Immediately after those first ten seconds however, Sherlocks’ senses had gathered significant amounts of data and had assembled them inside his brain for swift perusal and categorization. And he’d discovered something quite fascinating. 

John was not easily categorized. 

Each time Sherlock thought he was honing in on some dull sort of bloke John could be lumped in with, (a sports bloke, a computer geek, a new age type,) the pattern went askew. 

Upon deducting that John had been in the military, Sherlock’s brain immediately sought out evidence of a strict disciplinarian, quite common for those who had been through army training. He found none. John was relaxed about himself and slightly shabbily dressed. He’d missed a few spots while shaving, he had a small mustard stain on his sleeve. 

He deduced that John had likely been a doctor and looked for signs of workaholism and PTSD, and though he saw trauma, it was not the sort that crippled a man as it did other front line medics and other soldiers. He saw signs that John knew how to let loose and relax as well. The comfortable slump of his shoulders when he was not on guard, the affable gleam in his eye when glancing at Mike. 

Sherlock looked for loneliness and desperation, but based on the state of John’s fingernails and the size of the wallet in his back pocket (which likely contained at least one emergency condom) John was likely the type of man with an active dating life. 

His brain worked and worked to get to the center of who John Watson really was, to deduce his essence, boiling him down to base elements as he did everyone else. And there was a great deal he did pick up on and collect into a dossier of sorts. But there were still many missing pieces, and Sherlock was not used to this. 

John became a puzzle that he’d worked on solving for two years. And now, after living together for that amount of time, learning more about the intimate details of John’s character and his life, his wants and needs, he knew John far better than he had that first day at Saint Barts, but Sherlock still hadn’t solved the riddle. John still surprised him. And this drew him closer. 

Sherlock brought his mostly still full plate into the kitchen, covered it with plastic wrap and put it into the fridge. John would likely eat it later when he got home. He had no compunction against finishing off Sherlock’s leftovers. 

He dressed and headed out to Scotland Yard, still a bit stung that John had a life outside of their work together. 

**********

John did not return home until later that evening. Sherlock had solved the case for Lestrade without ever having to do a minute’s worth of detective work, based solely on the details of the crime as told to him by the DI. It was highly unsatisfying. The only satisfying bit being the look of mild irritation and now-familiar awe that had flitted across Gary’s face when Sherlock had laid it all out in clipped, abrupt sentences before whirling and leaving the man’s office to head back home. The whole affair had taken less than ten minutes. Not even worth the price of cab fare. 

He’d expected John back within a couple of hours, and when the late morning stretched to early afternoon, and then late afternoon, he’d grown petulant. Where had John gotten himself off to? He texted.

**_Where are you?_ **

**_SH_ **

And received a reply.

**_Out with a friend. Calm your pants_ **

**_JW_ **

Frowning, Sherlock opened his laptop to distract himself with some research on a rare disease he’d encountered during their last case.  _ Out with a friend?  _ Which friend could John possibly be referring to? Sherlock was John’s closest friend. Was John now making  _ new friends  _ ? And then it hit him. John must be out with a  _ woman  _ . Women liked John. A fact that made Sherlock’s stomach turn sour and the back of his neck tingle unpleasantly. He knew he was only envious because he wanted all of John’s time and attention for himself, to help with cases, to bounce ideas off of. John always grew distracted and soft in the head around the women he dated, and it got in the way of Sherlock using the man as a valuable resource. 

So John had apparently met someone new. He was probably out to dinner with them right now, having forgotten all about his promise to bring home takeaway. Sherlock whipped his phone back out and thumbed a swift text:

**_I thought you were bringing home takeaway_ **

**_SH_ **

A few moments passed while Sherlock chewed on the rough patch of skin next to his thumbnail and waited. 

**_I still am. What’ll you have?_ **

**_JW_ **

Ah. Good. So John wasn’t eating with someone else. Well, if not eating, what  _ was  _ he doing? Sherlock’s frown deepened. Probably having sex. John enjoyed sex. With women. A thing that Sherlock could not comprehend enjoying in the slightest. John though, seemed to excel at it. He was always dating some woman. Sherlock couldn’t be bothered to keep their names straight. There was a Karen recently, he was sure of it. And possibly a Stacey? Getting them mixed up always got him in trouble, so he tended to absent himself on the rare occasions that John dared to bring a woman home. Women were not fond of Sherlock in general. Not the ones John dated anyway. Not many women outside of Molly and Mrs. Hudson would tolerate his personality without growing swiftly offended.

When the door downstairs finally swung open and he could hear John’s familiar footsteps on the stairs, Sherlock breathed an inward sigh of relief. John finally appeared in the doorway, a paper bag full of takeaway Chinese in his arms, looking a little worn out. Sherlock supposed the sex had been extra enthusiastic. His brain though immediately picked up on details about John that belied his assumptions. The faint smell of lager on his breath. John usually had more posh, mixed drinks or a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks when on dates. Lager was a thing he drank when out with mates. There was no scent of women’s perfume, nor any sign of lipstick on John’s cheek. He had a small dusting of crisp flavor powder stuck to his forefinger on his right hand, so he’d been at a bar with snacks, and had not been afraid to indulge in front of whomever he’d been with. Interesting.

“Hope you feel like moo shu pork, because you never told me what you wanted,” John said, plunking the bag down on the kitchen counter. 

“That’s fine,” Sherlock replied, flicking his eyes back to his computer screen while trying to make further deductions about John’s early evening companion. He was frustratingly drawing a blank. None of the usual clues that told him John had recently had sex were present either, and that made a strange flush of relief wash through Sherlock’s chest. Why was he relieved that John wasn’t having sex? 

“You’re welcome,” John said pointedly, and went up to his room to freshen up. Sherlock tried to focus on his research, but the smell of the Chinese food was distracting. He snapped his laptop shut and went into the kitchen to set up the food. By the time John had come back down, Sherlock had set out two plates and two sets of black, lacquered chopsticks from their personal collection, dumping the wooden ones that came with the meal into the trash. He’d set out a pair of wine glasses and uncorked a new bottle of chardonnay. 

“What’s all this then?” John asked, reentering the kitchen with a freshly washed face and a t-shirt on. 

“Just setting up dinner,” Sherlock replied, taking a seat and looking at John expectantly. 

“Oh, alright then,” John’s eyebrows rose, and Sherlock supposed he had a right to be a bit surprised. It wasn’t in Sherlock’s nature to set up dinner for them both, that was usually a job for his flatmate. He sat down now, opposite Sherlock and took a sip of wine. “This smells lovely,” he said, before pulling out a pancake and using his chopsticks to lever a large portion of steaming pork and vegetables onto it. 

“So, who were you out with?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual. 

“An old school chum,” John replied, licking some spare gravy off of the heel of his hand with his tongue. A motion that Sherlock tracked with interest. 

“A male school chum? Or a female one?”

John narrowed his eyes. “A female one,” he replied, suspicion just beginning to color his tone. He could be slow on the uptake when it came to Sherlock’s motivations. A thing Sherlock used to his advantage fairly often. 

“Ah,” remarked Sherlock, freeing an egg roll from its wax paper bag and biting into it. 

“What,” John asked, giving him a level look. “What’s going on with you tonight? Something’s got you acting strange.” 

“It’s nothing,” Sherlock replied. “So, what did you and your lady friend talk about?”

“Not much,” John replied. “We hadn’t seen one another for ages and so we went to the corner pub and had a pint.”

“You don’t usually drink lager when you’re on a date,” Sherlock remarked, chewing thoughtfully.

“I wasn’t on a date,” replied John, his tone curt, clipped. A subtle warning sign

“Yes, you say that, and yet you’re acting like you usually do when you come home from a date. One that went well anyway. You’re all chipper and hungry.” Sherlock took another bite and busied himself with prying open a plastic container of steamed dumplings, keeping his eyes off of John’s face. He felt a sudden vulnerability tugging at the center of his chest. As if he were asking John about things that felt more important than they seemed on the surface. As if John’s answers had the power to wound him somehow, and he didn’t like it. This exposed feeling. 

“Like I said, Sherlock, it wasn’t a date. Just an old school chum,” John’s curtness had ratchet up just a notch. That tone that said  _ what are you on about  _ , mixed up with  _ mind your own business  _ . 

“Fine,” Sherlock said. “What did you two talk about?”

“I don’t know, things. Our lives since we last spoke, which was probably twenty years ago. She got married, had two kids, got divorced. I told her about the military, my practice at the clinic, my work with you.” 

“You told her about me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Oh, I don’t know. So, she got divorced did she? She’s single?”

John put the chopsticks down and gave Sherlock a  _ look.  _ “Alright Sherlock, you’ve made it pretty clear that you want to pry into my personal life, so I’ll tell you. Yes, she’s single now. Her kids are off to college and she lives alone. Yes, I’m interested and I find her attractive. I asked her out to the cinema next Saturday and she said yes. Are you happy now?”

Sherlock felt a stab of regret and a flash of jealousy lance through his gut with surprising force. He covered for it by taking another bite of eggroll, which had suddenly turned flavorless and dry in his mouth. “I’m not  _ prying  _ John, I simply want to know the details of your day.”

“I thought you could tell the details of my day based solely on the state of my coat and how I shaved in the morning,” John shot back.

Sherlock sighed. “Not tonight I can’t. Not sure why. Everything’s got mixed up.” 

“Mixed up? What _ is  _ going on with you tonight Sherlock? You’re acting off.”

Sherlock shrugged, putting his half eaten egg roll down and getting up from the table. “I should go back to my research,” he said by way of explanation and stalked over to the sofa, wiping his hands off on a small, take away food napkin before throwing himself down on the sofa and grabbing his laptop. He opened it on his chest, effectively blocking his view of John, who was likely still sitting at the table, forkful of food halfway to his mouth, staring at Sherlock as if he’d gone mad.

“Hey,” John said, voice gone soft and solicitous.

Sherlock ignored him and began typing away, scrolling through search engines on the W.H.O website, doing disease research. Keeping busy. 

“You know, when you get like this, it actually works counter to your goal,” John remarked, his voice muffled by his next bite of food. 

“What goal would that be?” Sherlock asked, affecting a tone of complete and utter disinterest as he scrolled blindly through a series of web pages. 

“The goal you have of possessing all of your friends’ attention, resources and free time for yourself,” John replied, calm as you please. 

Sherlock found ignoring him suddenly exponentially more difficult. He closed the laptop and pulled himself into a sitting position on the sofa. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” he asked, glaring at John.

“It means you treat your friends like possessions and you don’t like to share. It’s like someone is trying to take your toys away. And…” he added, stabbing the air with his chopsticks to help illustrate his point, “it would work better to keep people you care about close to you if you were nicer.”

“ _ Nicer  _ ?” Sherlock said the word with as much disdain as he could possibly manage to shove into two syllables. “What does being  _ nice  _ have to do with keeping my friends around? If they are in fact my friends, one would think they’d give me their loyalty and respect for a better reason than that I’m  _ nice.  _ ” 

“They do already,” John said, picking up a wad of noodles and preparing to shove them into his mouth. “Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson..” he paused for a split second, “me. We care about you and support you because you’re a genius. Because you’re clever and funny and protective and loyal and mostly quite honest. It’s just that you lack a certain softness Sherlock, and after a while, that can get a bit… what’s the word... grating.” 

“Grating?” Sherlock supposed John was right, but hearing it laid out this plainly still stung his ego a bit. He wasn’t  _ grating  _ . He was direct. Decisive. 

“Yes,” John replied. “You’re quite harsh to those you care about the most.” Then he sighed, tossing the chopsticks down onto his plate. He rose and brought his plate to the kitchen, scraping the scraps into the bin and putting it into the kitchen sink with just a hint of a frustrated clatter to betray his feelings. Sherlock could tell by the stiffness of his movements, the way his brows drew together and the dark shadows under his eyes that he was tired and irritable. 

“I’m calling it an early night,” he said. “See you tomorrow.” And with that, he stomped up the stairs to his bedroom, leaving a bewildered Sherlock, sitting on the couch and staring after him. 

****************

Saturday rolled around, and John headed out for his date with Julia, or was it Jessica? Sherlock could not be bothered to remember. Whatever the woman’s name was, she’d be out of John’s life within a few weeks or months. They never stuck around. John was just far too dedicated to helping Sherlock solve cases. And if you added in his busy days down at the clinic, there just wasn’t much room in John’s life left over for dating.

_ You mean you don’t allow for much room in John’s life except for you and your needs  _ . His brain supplied this very unhelpful comment, and Sherlock frowned. Surely he wasn’t monopolizing John’s time simply to keep all of John’s attention to himself? He truly didn’t mind if John dated. The man worked hard, he deserved to have a social life of his own. Life couldn’t all be chasing after perps down dark alleys and dodging bullets could it? John could not spend all of his time digging through trash bins or rifling through people’s musty old basements looking for clues...could he?

_ Why not? That’s what you want, isn’t it?  _ Another uncharitable thought bubbled up from Sherlock’s subconscious, and he shoved it aside. 

He had nothing on this evening, and this always made him cranky. Saturdays, when John wasn’t doing something else, he usually spent the evening with Sherlock, watching some program on the telly and making something for dinner. John had been experimenting with Indian and Thai recipes, coconut milk, hot peppers, and Sherlock would be lying if he said John’s latest concoctions weren’t delicious. 

Now Sherlock was left by himself in the flat. He briefly entertained the idea of going downstairs to have a chat with Mrs. Hudson, but abandoned it just as quickly. There were only so many grandmotherly stories a man could listen to when in an uncertain mood. 

_ You could follow him on his date,  _ Sherlock’s brain suggested coyly.  _ Make sure this new woman is on the level. Make sure she’s not some sort of spy agent for an evil superpower that has designs on revenge for you putting them away in prison. _

Sherlock actually cringed at his mind’s pathetic attempt to come up with a reason to stalk John and his new love interest on their date. Truth was though, he had developed a habit of following John around now and then. He was an excellent stalker. Quiet, nimble, quick on his feet. John was so level headed and practical. He always just marched down the street with his no-nonsense soldier walk, eyes pointed straight ahead. It took next to none of Sherlock’s formidable skills to keep up with him while remaining unseen. 

He’d only done it a few times. John had gotten mugged once, and the mugger had been an agent sent by a vengeful money launderer Sherlock (and John by association) had helped put in prison few months prior. The mugger had punched John in the gut, given him a black eye, and had been preparing to knife him when Sherlock had slipped out of the shadows and knocked the man cold. After that little incident, Sherlock had insisted that John carry his service revolver when he went out alone at night to certain areas of the city, and John had grudgingly agreed. And the look in his eyes, full of gratitude and awe after the mugger had dropped to the ground with a grunt and a thud? Well it had made the sneaking and hiding worth it. 

He didn’t do it often, the stalking. The following. The whole guardian angel routine. Only once or twice a month. It was his way of reassuring himself that his friend and flatmate was alright. And he never followed John into any buildings. Never eavesdropped on his private conversations. He only wanted to make sure John was safe. 

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock had his coat and scarf on and was headed down the stairs to go find John and his date. They were seeing a film at the local cinema and then going to a popular sushi place off of Beak Street. It was a fifteen minute walk from the flat. He could wait outside the cinema and then follow them to the restaurant. The film must be nearly over by now, considering that John had left the flat two hours previously. Add in a half an hour to buy tickets, pick up refreshments and take their seats. Then an hour and a half spent watching the film. Most films were between an hour and a half and two hours in length, and Sherlock had heard John mention that this particular one would be a romantic comedy. Those tended to be shorter than say, sweeping dramas or historical films (popular date genres). 

His calculations were very close, for just as he approached the theater, people were spilling out of the front doors, lighting up long awaited cigarettes, chatting and milling about. Sherlock spotted John and his date quite quickly. She was a small woman, with honey blond hair and glasses. A little mousy in appearance. Not nearly as glamorous as some of the other women John had dated. Sherlock kept to the shadows in the park across the street and watched from a distance as the couple turned and headed in the direction of the restaurant. They were talking animatedly, of which Sherlock could hear every other word. Complaining about the banality of the film they’d just seen, arguing over which actor would have been a better choice for which role. They sounded...happy. Enthusiastic. Sherlock felt his stomach clench with envy. 

They arrived at the restaurant, and were luckily shown to a table by the window. Sherlock settled in on a bench across the street to watch. He pulled his collar up to hide the pale oval of his face and kept his head mostly down, and they weren’t looking anyway. John seemed to only have eyes for Jessica (or was it Julia?). They chatted away for a while after they’d ordered. Sherlock could tell from John’s body language that he was trying extra hard to impress his date. Pulling out all the stops, using his roguish grin, cocking his one eyebrow, doing that charming thing where he smiled through a self deprecating chuckle. All of those little things that made John so appealing to Sherlock were now being displayed for someone else. Given to someone else. 

Sherlock realized he was grinding his teeth and forced himself to relax. It was a thing he could do, when his mind spun out of control, when the details piled up and his feelings fell into a jumbled mess of confusing flashes. He breathed deeply, counting to eight seconds on the inhale, holding for five seconds, breathing out for eight seconds. After 3.5 cycles of measured breathing, he felt himself relax significantly. 

The waiter had brought their food and John and his date were busying themselves with the mechanics of eating, which mercifully distracted John from looking at her in  _ that way.  _ He was too busy navigating the use of his chopsticks and measuring out the right amount of wasabi into the small dish of soy sauce by his plate to flirt. 

His date however was not too distracted by the food to reach over and use her hands to rearrange John’s finger hold on his chopsticks. Sherlock watched as the intimate contact, the gentle touch of the woman’s fingertips against John’s hand made his flatmate react on a physiological level. He watched as John grew pink across his cheeks, watched his eyes flick back and forth from her hands against his, up to her face and back, trying to discover her intent. Sherlock wondered if John was feeling that mix of incongruous sensations that Sherlock himself felt on the rare occasions when John touched  _ him  _ . Nervous jitters and an electric sort of excitement. 

But that was just the nervousness that Sherlock felt when anyone touched him wasn’t it? Sherlock didn’t like people touching him. There wasn’t any sort of sexual component to his jitters when John placed a hand on Sherlock’s back or gripped him by the forearm...was there? Now, watching John thrill to the touch of his date’s gentle fingers, Sherlock wasn’t so sure. John was a touchy person. A tactile person. He would have to be wouldn’t he? Dealing with patients all day. He was intimately involved with the bodies of his patients, feeling for a swollen gland, palpating for lumps during cancer checks. He had thick, muscular hands, short fingers, surprisingly nimble for how blocky they looked. His hands always seemed to be warm as well. Sherlock’s by comparison were long and slender and perpetually cold. 

Sherlock thought for a brief moment about what it might feel like to interlace his fingers with John’s, to feel the warmth of John’s broad, calloused palm pressed against his own. He felt himself go hot in the face, and felt a corresponding pulse of heat in the pit of his stomach and swiftly pushed the thoughts away, bringing his attention back to the dinner that was playing out in front of him across the street. 

John’s date had finally stopped touching John and was mercifully focused on eating. They were still chatting away amiably, but at least she was keeping her hands to herself. 

Not that Sherlock was upset over John being touched by someone. It was his prerogative after all. To be touched. To have sex with people. Just because touch and sex were things Sherlock did not crave, didn’t mean that he begrudged them for others. It was only that… for some reason, the more time Sherlock spent in John’s company, the more he  _ did  _ seem to mind when he knew John was intimate with other people. When John came home late, disheveled and clearly debauched after spending the evening at a woman’s house. Or when Sherlock had the experience (rare and unwanted) of walking in on John kissing one of his girlfriends in the kitchen. There was always this twist of sharp discomfort in Sherlock’s gut. 

Dinner was almost over. They were smiling too much. She was laughing far too much at John’s jokes (which were never all that funny). When Johanna (or Julie) reached for the check, John placed his hand over hers, under the pretense of insisting on paying for dinner, but Sherlock knew that there was a secondary reason for the sudden contact. John wanted to touch her back. He wanted to test the waters, ask for more connection. Sherlock was gritting his teeth again.

They would be leaving the restaurant soon, so Sherlock left the bench where he’d been sitting and strolled a few paces away down the street, hiding himself effectively in the dark space between streetlights. He knew they would exit and turn right, so that John could walk her home. He’d foolishly repeated her address over the phone yesterday within earshot of Sherlock. Either that or he’d hail her a cab. Or worse, hail them both a cab, so that John could go home with her. In that case, Sherlock would be out of luck, but if they walked home… he could follow them. Just to make sure they were safe. 

Thankfully John and Justine turned right and began walking toward her place. Sherlock followed at a very discreet distance, but they were so wrapped up in their lively conversation that they were very unlikely to look behind them by this point. 

John was laughing at her jokes (also not very funny), and she kept putting her hand on his arm and shoulder and on his back to illustrate her points. Is this what people did to display romantic interest? Sherlock knew it must be the case. He’d observed such casual touches many times, especially when women wanted to signal to their male interest that touch from him was welcomed. A sort of invitation. 

_ Perhaps I could do the same thing to signal to John that I want him to touch me more… _

Now where had that thought come from? Did he in fact  _ want  _ John to touch him more? One look at John, responding by placing his hand on Jessica’s low back, over her coat confirmed this fact. Yes, Sherlock wanted John to touch him more. Just for the sake of research mind you. Sherlock reacted differently to John’s touches than he did anyone else’s. When other people touched him (which was admittedly rare), he felt himself flinch inside with an acute sort of discomfort. When John touched him however (also rare), with a companionable pat to the back or a squeeze his forearm in solidarity, Sherlock felt something entirely different. A whirring excitement. A startling burst of heat and energy wherever John’s hands landed. 

John’s touches were almost never responded to by touches back from Sherlock. Except for perhaps the few times he’d patted him down to make sure John wasn’t hurt after a particularly dangerous confrontation with a violent suspect. And at those times, Sherlock was so nervous for John’s safety that he forgot to catalogue his inner feelings. 

He’d have to perform some minor experiments on touching John after tonight. 

They’d (all three of them) arrived at Johanna’s front door, and much to Sherlock’s relief, John was clearly not being invited upstairs. Her body language spoke volumes, but they weren’t the usual non-verbal messages of  _ I like you a lot but…  _ or  _ I see you more as a friend  _ . Her body language was very welcoming, but also a little cautious. And so was John’s. He was putting his hands in his pockets, looking down and up at her through his lashes in the way he did when he was uncertain. 

They grew still for a moment and neither one spoke. Then, without warning, Jessica surged forward and kissed John on the mouth. 

Sherlock felt the kiss like a strike to the core of him. He drew in a sharp breath and brought his hand up to his chest. It felt a little as if the sight of this kiss had been a shot from the muzzle of a gun, and the bullet had ripped into his heart. 

_ You’re being dramatic  _ , his logical mind supplied. 

_ That’s  _ my  _ John!  _ responded the emotional side of him. 

John wrapped his arms around Julia’s waist and pulled her close and deepened the kiss, and Sherlock turned and walked away. He took long, stiff steps, hands plunged into the pockets of his coat, putting as much distance as possible between him and that painful moment. He didn’t want to see anymore. He wanted to scrub the image of that kiss from his mind’s eye for good. He was gritting his teeth again, a fact he barely noticed because his face was flushed and his stomach was tied up in sickening knots. 

How could John kiss her like that? As if he wanted to kiss her with every fiber of his being? As if he had been waiting to kiss her for a long time, even though he’d only just re-met her a few days ago? It made no sense. Wanting to kiss someone took time. It took getting to know them really well. Learning about all of their likes and dislikes and their irritating habits and in cataloging each of their very different smiles. 

John knew all of these things about Sherlock, and Sherlock knew all of these things about John. John however could not know very much at all about Julianna. They’d only spoken for a few hours, hadn’t seen one another in decades. How then did John want to kiss her so badly? How could he hold her in his arms and move his mouth against hers, and close his beautiful eyes and kiss her like that? They were practically strangers!

And that was when Sherlock realized, in a flash of recognition, that  _ he  _ wanted to kiss John. He wanted to walk over them, shove Jessica out of the way and take John into his arms.  _ How curious  _ thought his analytical brain.  _ Why would you want something like that? _

_ Because I  _ want  _ to,  _ came his brain's emotional response to himself. He did this sometimes, had little conversations between the emotional and logical sides of himself. They were often at odds. 

_ But why? Are you attracted to him? _

_ Yes.  _ The answer came immediately, and Sherlock marveled at the swiftness of his own affirmation. Yes, he was attracted to John. It was an attraction that had built slowly, hampered by society’s expectations of them as men, slowed by Sherlock’s own stubborn resistance to any feeling that wasn’t connected to detective work and cold logic. But it was there, and had slowly grown in strength and surety until Sherlock, having witnessed John kissing his date just now, was suddenly a burning, jealous, horrible wreck of a man. 

_ Why are you attracted to him?  _ Came the next question. 

_ Because he is beautiful  _ . The answer came again, swift and sure. John was beautiful. It had taken Sherlock far too long to notice this, and now the truth of it washed through him in a breathtaking wave of realization. John’s dark blue eyes with glints of amber and gold at the center, so unique and so piercing in his boyish face. His salt and pepper hair and how it swept across his pale, earnest brow. His sturdy arms and legs and pleasing plains of his muscular chest, and the slight slope of his belly under his jumper. All of these details had been accumulating in Sherlock's mind palace, on the very large shelf he’d labeled  _ John Watson  _ . But they had not before now culminated in the obvious conclusion Sherlock was swiftly honing in on. 

_ You’re in love with him  _ . It was a statement from one part of his brain to the other. His logical mind had put the pieces together and his emotional mind agreed enthusiastically. Yes, he was in love with John Watson. This is why he wanted John to stop kissing that woman. It was why he wanted John to carry his service revolver at night when he went out alone. It was why every time John touched him, Sherlock felt every cell in his body perk up and vibrate gently with excitement. 

_ What now?  _ His logical mind wanted to know what would happen next. 

_ Nothing will happen  _ , Sherlock responded.  _ He doesn’t want you back, so nothing will happen. _

_ You don’t know that,  _ his logical mind supplied.  _ Have you ever given him a chance to show you how he feels? _

Sherlock knew he had not. He’d been closed off around John, sharing a smile now and then when they solved a particularly tough case, or complimenting John (far too rarely he now realized) on his skills at medical deductions. He had kept his hands to himself, had not told John how much he meant to Sherlock. He really had treated John like a possession. Like a tool he could use to feel better about his own genius, to keep him occupied and entertained. He hadn’t invited John any closer through all of this. And therein lay his mistake. 

Sherlock knew John was attracted to men. He’d seen his flatmate’s porn search history, and the words “bi men” and “male solo video” showed up far too often for John to be strictly straight. Why he didn’t date men was a mystery that Sherlock could not solve through deduction alone. It would involve actually talking to John about his sexual preferences, and  _ that  _ was unthinkably awkward to Sherlock. 

So, perhaps what was needed now was a little careful experimentation. Some casual touches and well placed comments. Just to gauge John’s reactions. What other choice did he have? Now that he knew what his heart had been trying to tell him for several months, he couldn’t ignore it any longer. He loved John Watson. And he needed to let him know this. 

*************

Sherlock beat John home by a mere three minutes and thirty nine seconds. He had just enough time to remove his coat and scarf and hang them up, before finding a newspaper and lounging in his armchair in a convincing fashion before he heard the door open and close downstairs and he heard John thumping his way up to the flat.

“Hullo,” John said as he stepped through the door. 

“Hmmm?” Sherlock feigned distraction, pretending to be absorbed completely by a banal article about a girl who tailor made little regency romance outfits for her cats. 

“I said hello,” John repeated as he went to the refrigerator and opened it. Sherlock could hear the clink of a beer bottle being removed and then the hiss and snap as John popped the cap off. 

“How was your date?” Sherlock asked, keeping his voice level and oh so casual. 

“It went really well. We had a lovely time.” John dropped into his chair across from Sherlock and waited patiently for Sherlock to lower his newspaper and pay John some attention. 

Sherlock obliged him, folding the paper and putting it on the side table next to his chair, acting for all the world as if talking to John was not at the top of a long list of things he wanted to do right at that moment. “I can tell it went well, because you look ridiculously pleased with yourself,” he said, lacing his hands together under his chin and fixing John with a sharp look. 

“Of course, of course. You know all about my date don’t you?” John rolled his eyes. “Probably you know what we ate for dinner based on the way I took my coat off,” the sarcasm in his voice, though tinted with fondness was very evident. 

“Well, you reek of peanut oil, so I’m assuming some sort of Asian place,” Sherlock responded, but not because he already knew where John had eaten. He refused to trump up his skills by 

cheating’. John  _ did  _ smell strongly of peanut oil. Not an unpleasant scent really. Sherlock wondered if his hair had managed to avoid the peanutty onslaught and fought a sudden urge to walk over and bury his nose in John’s silvery locks to investigate. 

“Yeah, sushi. That’s a pretty good guess.”

“It wasn’t a  _ guess  _ John, it was a deduction.” 

John rolled his eyes. “Of course. Perish the thought of you ever guessing anything.” 

“So,” Sherlock felt he had to dig deeper. “You said you liked her. How is that… moving along?” 

John narrowed his eyes, peering at him with obvious suspicion, and Sherlock realized his mistake. He had never before shown the least bit of interest in the progression of John’s relationships before now. He’d slipped up. “I just want to know how many nights I can expect to be alone here in the flat,” he added hurriedly. “I have some experiments that work best when you’re not around, looking over my shoulder.”

“Oh, alright. Well, it’s going great if you must know,” John replied, looking a tiny bit hurt, but swiftly rallying as he clearly remembered the kiss that had transpired only moments ago, in front of Jeannette’s apartment. “We made plans to see each other Wednesday evening after I get off work at the clinic.”

Sherlock felt his chest tighten, his breath come short just a little. Which was strange because he’d already known John had enjoyed the date and the kiss. He’d seen it first hand. Why did hearing it confirmed from John make the news so very painful? “Wonderful!” he exclaimed, picking up his newspaper and opening it up again, unsure of what else to do, except to block out the image of John’s excited face when he thought about seeing Jessica. With a crinkling flourish, Sherlock brought the stiff pages up between them again.

“Alright then,” John said, clearly a little put out at being dismissed so suddenly. “Did you eat anything? I’m willing to  _ deduce  _ that you didn’t…” he left the sentence hanging in the air, and like a fool, Sherlock fell for the bait.

“I didn't have anything yet,” he said, trying to keep the stiffness from his tone. “I’m not hungry.”

“You’re never  _ hungry  _ ,” countered John. “Let me make you some soup or something.”

“Whatever you’d like,” Sherlock replied, warmed a little bit by John’s offer to mother him despite himself. “I suppose that would work.”

He heard John sigh and get up to head into the kitchen, and he folded down a corner of the paper to watch the man move around, opening cabinets, preparing to heat up a can of soup. 

The sure movements of John’s hands as he poked around in the cabinet were suddenly far more interesting than usual. Sherlock watched while John operated the hand held can opener and peeled the can’s lid back and tossed it in the bin. His hands had always been a thing of interest to Sherlock, if only because Sherlock focused in on details about the human body that others ignored. Now though, now that he knew what lay behind the fascination with John’s size and shape and movements, a whole new world of imaginings had opened themselves up to Sherlock.

Now, as he watched John’s hands moving at this mundane task, he found himself thinking of what those hands might feel like against his skin. What would John’s warm, thick palm feel like pressed against the side of Sherlock’s neck? What would those square, sturdy fingertips, so strong yet so nimble feel like skating over the skin of Sherlock’s chest? He sucked in a sharp breath as the very thought brought a flush of heat, and jerked his eyes away from John’s form. 

He tried to focus back on the paper in his hands, but gave up quickly and abandoned it, rising to go and join John in the kitchen, feeling drawn in by this suddenly awakened awareness. It dawned on him that this might be a good time to try out those small, welcoming touches he’d witnessed while following John and Judith around earlier that evening. John was standing at the stove, stirring the soup and gazing down into the pot with unfocused eyes, a small half-smile playing about his mouth. Probably thinking of that kiss again. 

Sherlock boldly stepped up next to him and placed a hand, palm down, fingers splayed, at the center of John’s back over his jumper. “Looks good,” he remarked. 

John jumped a little and then glanced up at him with surprise clearly written across his face. He did not move away, but it was obvious that he was confused by the sudden contact and a little startled. Sherlock removed his hand and John seemed to relax somewhat. A fact that hurt Sherlock a little. “It’s your standard chicken noodle,” John replied. “But since you’ll only eat three spoonfuls, I suppose it doesn’t matter.” He was grinning a little, fondly. 

Encouraged by the fact that John had not stepped away, had not flinched from his touch, Sherlock put his hand on John’s back again. This time, he placed his hand on John’s shoulder, the one farthest from him, and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Thank you,” he said at the same time. He could show John how soft he could be. He was capable of being more than, what had John called him? Abrasive? Grating?

John’s reaction this time was far more dramatic. He sucked in a breath and his cheeks went pink and he did flinch just a little bit.  _ Interesting  _ . Sherlock removed his hand, not wanting to overwhelm his flatmate. He took a step back and watched as John’s eyes immediately flew to his face, questioning, searching for some motive. 

“You said I was grating,” Sherlock offered by way of explanation. “I am trying to be softer.” 

John smiled, letting out a huff of air that sounded suspiciously like relief. “Oh yeah?” He asked. “I thought for a moment you’d gotten pissed while I was out. You’re not usually like this… touchy like this.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. “But I’ve recently realized that I’d like to touch you more.”

John’s cheeks went from light pink to a far darker shade and he cleared his throat. “Sherlock, I’m not in the mood for your experiments tonight. Here, the soup’s done. Stop messing about and go sit down and I’ll bring it to you.”

“Messing about?” Sherlock was offended, but he did as John asked and went obediently to take a seat at the table. “I’m not messing about. I thought touch was a way people conveyed affection. Appreciation. I’m just trying to… soften up… Like I said.”

“I know, but it’s quite sudden. That’s all. And blokes don’t… blokes don’t usually touch me like that.” John replied, still with his back to Sherlock as he distractedly reached for a bowl and poured the soup into it. He turned and came over, placing the soup and a spoon in front of Sherlock, before sitting opposite him. 

You _ don’t normally touch me like that,  _ was likely what he’d really been trying to say, but Sherlock let it go. He brought a spoonful of hot, yellow broth up to his mouth and blew on it to cool it, while watching John through his lashes. This surprisingly seemed to make John uncomfortable. His eyes kept flicking to Sherlock’s mouth and away again, and he shifted in this chair. Sherlock ate the spoonful and went in for another one. “You seem nervous,” he said. 

“I’m just… I don’t know. It’s been a strange night.” John replied. 

“You kissed her didn’t you?” Sherlock asked. Why put it off? He could easily have deduced as much from the happy gleam in John’s eyes, from the faint whiff of Jeannette’s perfume that still lingered on John’s clothes, or from the slightly bruised look of John’s lips. 

“That’s none of your business,” John said, his voice suddenly flat, his face closing up.

Sherlock knew he’d made a mistake, but he wasn’t sure how. He put his spoon down, reached across the table, and placed his hand on top of John’s, trying to make amends. Trying to connect. 

John reacted far more strongly this time. He pulled his hand from under Sherlock’s and stood up in a rush, knocking into the counter behind him and rattling the dishes in the cabinet a little in his haste. “Why...what….Sherlock?” He asked, his eyes looked hurt for some reason. Hurt and confused, and Sherlock could not imagine what he’d just done. 

“I told you John. I’d like to touch you more. I’d like to be softer. To show you my appreciation. I didn’t mean anything by it.” 

John was staring at him, wide eyes, darting over Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock felt his gut twist with apprehension. Somehow he had misread the situation. He’d taken a wrong step. John didn’t want Sherlock to touch him more. This realization caused a cold feeling of bitter disappointment to spill down Sherlock’s spine. 

“It’s alright, it’s OK,” John said, placating Sherlock when he himself was the unsettled one. “I don’t mind really. I’m just... not accustomed to it.”

“I can stop if you want,” Sherlock offered, and to his surprise, John shook his head.

“No, it’s really OK Sherlock. I didn’t mean to freak out. It’s OK.” John was calming down, taking his seat opposite Sherlock again. Sherlock relaxed his tensed shoulders and picked his spoon back up. “I just didn’t know why,” John said, ”and I didn’t think you were...the type. You know. The type to touch other people like that. Least of all me.” 

_ Least of all me.  _ Sherlock shrugged before helping himself to a bite of broth, a few spare noodles and a small, square cube of highly processed chicken meat. He chewed thoughtfully, looking down into his bowl, unsure what to say or do next. He supposed honesty was the best policy. “My feelings toward you have changed,” he said. He glanced up then to gauge the reaction on John’s face. John’s eyes had gone wide again, and his mouth had fallen open just a little bit. 

“In what way?” he asked, his chest rising and falling faster than usual, the pinkness, which had only just left John’s cheeks a moment or two ago, making a triumphant and colourful return. 

“In the way that I would like to touch you more,” Sherlock replied, knowing he was being vague, but completely incapable of being more succinct. He abandoned the soup and pushed it aside.

“What does that mean?” John asked, and there was an intensity in his eyes that unnerved Sherlock just a little bit. He was suspicious of Sherlock’s motives, that was clear. And Sherlock found that suddenly, he did not feel quite so comfortable about revealing them. 

“I...just think it will make it easier for me to... connect with people. To show my appreciation for my f- my friends,” he cursed inwardly as he stuttered on the word, that word that made him feel so terrified yet so warm inside at the same time. 

“Ah, I see,” John said, and his voice echoed with a knowing sort of resignation. “You want to practice with me, practice touching, so you can seem more personable. You had me very confused there for a minute Sherlock.” His tone was one of relief, but also mixed with… disappointment?

“Yes, that’s exactly it!” Sherlock pounced on the conveniently offered excuse. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind, helping me out. I really took it to heart, what you said about me not being soft enough, kind enough. I thought… touching people more might help.” Tonight was not the night to bring up the fact that touching other people was not at all Sherlock’s goal. That it was all about getting closer to John. 

“Very well then, I accept!” John exclaimed. “You’ll just have to remember that I’m not used to it, and my reactions may vary.”

Sherlock nodded. “Of course. Would it help if I asked permission first?” he asked. 

John thought for a quick moment. “Yes, that would be a good idea. Asking consent to touch someone for the first few times, or in new ways is generally a very good idea. It’ll be good practice for you. To construct healthy boundaries.”

Sherlock nodded. He knew he needed help with boundaries. Emotional ones. Clearly his physical boundaries needed some work as well.

“Alright,” he said out loud. “I’ll ask first then.”

“Sounds good.” John said, then he got up from the table again with a tired sigh. “I think it’s time I went to bed,” he said. “I’ve got work in the morning.”

Sherlock nodded, feeling a little awkward. He watched as John made his way to the stairs and up, already thinking about the touches he might ask for tomorrow.

******************

The touching experiment, though off to a stiff start, proved to be quite successful. Sherlock asked John if he could put his hand on John’s arm, if he could place a hand on his back. He asked if they could sit close to each other while watching telly with their legs pressed together. John would always give his consent when Sherlock asked, and seemed to genuinely welcome the touches. 

Sherlock grew bolder and more comfortable, and soon, within a few day’s time, he was pleased to discover that he and John could now touch in this affectionate, casual way without John jerking back or gasping in surprise. Sherlock had started forgetting to ask for permission, and John hadn’t brought it up as an issue. They melted quite easily into this promising new pattern.

Sherlock knew it was foolish to get used to touching John. Every time his palm made contact with the solid warmth of John’s low back, or his fingers skated in a familiar fashion across John’s shoulders, he felt his stomach turn over in thrilling little flip flops. He was too affected by it. It wasn’t casual. It wasn’t light. To Sherlock, it meant everything. To John, it was a pleasant way to help his friend become more sociable and warmer to those around him. The dichotomy of their two experiences made Sherlock feel echoes of guilt surrounding the extra touch. Guilt and a little sadness that it meant so much less to his flatmate.

And then Wednesday rolled around, and John announced that he was headed out on his second date with Sandra (her name hadn’t started with a ‘J’ after all). Sherlock had felt John’s words like a slap in the face. He’d covered his intense disappointment and jealousy by pretending to be immersed in something on his laptop, responding to John’s goodbye with a distracted noise and a stiff nod. 

John was gone for several hours, and during this time, Sherlock’s brain supplied him with all manner of unfortunate images. John, naked and in Sandra’s bed. John, swearing undying love to Sandra. John, telling Sandra he’d never felt this way about anyone before. Meanwhile, Sherlock was growing more and more frantic with jealous worry. He found sitting still impossible and took to pacing about the flat, picking up books and discarding them, picking up his phone scrolling through his old text messages to John, then tossing it down again. 

Was love supposed to be this painful and uncertain? When they’d engaged in those gentle, careful touches over the last few days, it had felt easy and joyful. Because, Sherlock realized belatedly, he was getting what he wanted; John’s attention and affection. But now, John was out with someone else. Someone he’d kissed already, and it felt horrible. It felt as if someone had reached into Sherlock’s chest and was squeezing his heart in a slow, steady grip. It felt harder to breathe, impossible to concentrate on anything but catastrophic imaginings over what John and Sandra might be doing at this very moment. 

When the door downstairs finally swung open and closed, admitting John, at half past one in the morning, Sherlock was a mess. He swiftly left the sitting room and went to his bedroom and shut the door. He couldn’t face John. Not now, while he was eaten up with jealousy and worry. He’d talk to him tomorrow. 

Sherlock threw himself on the bed, fully clothed and buried his face in his pillow. He tried to block out the noises of John going to the refrigerator, John walking around the flat, John using the loo and turning on the shower. He only ever showered in the mornings, or after dates where Sherlock was reasonably sure he’d had sex, so this was a very clear indicator that he’d had sex with Sandra . 

Sherlock felt a hot spike of jealous fear lance through him and moaned softly into the pillow. Why did this hurt so much? He’d have preferred it if he’d never realized the nature of his feelings for John. Before those feelings had come rising to the surface, Sherlock hadn’t cared what John had done on his dates, or when he’d had sex. 

No...that wasn’t quite true was it? He  _ had  _ cared. He’d only told himself repeatedly that he hadn’t. He’d used his lack of emotional self-knowledge as a shield to hide behind when it came to John’s extracurricular activities. Now though, now that he’d faced his love for his flatmate head on, it had grown exponentially more difficult to deal with this jealousy, this agony of insecurity and fear that twisted through his insides like some invasive serpent. 

He tossed and turned the rest of the night away, probably only getting a few moments of real sleep before being woken for good by the light pouring in through the crack in his bedroom curtains. 

He’d slept in his clothing, and so he went first to shower and change into some comfortable tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. Lestrade hadn’t called for him lately and he had nothing on today, so he might as well be comfortable for the hours of wallowing in self pity that he had planned. 

He wandered into the kitchen, towelling his hair dry, only to find John with a cup of coffee. “Good morning!” his flatmate said, bright and cheery as anything.

“Morning,” Sherlock mumbled back, dropping into the chair opposite John and avoiding his eyes. “I trust you had a good evening,” he said, knowing he sounded sullen, but beyond the ability to stop. 

“It was...mixed,” John replied before taking a gulp of his coffee. “How was yours?”

“Fine,” Sherlock replied, still not able to look at John’s shining, just-had-sex face. 

“You don’t sound fine,” John countered. 

“Well, I’m feeling a bit under the weather today, if you must know,” Sherlock shot back, more angrily than he’d intended. 

“Did you get any sleep?” John asked, his tone turning careful like it did when he was about to launch into Mothering Mode. “I saw your light on when I got home.”

“I got enough,” Sherlock lied. 

“Want to go with me to the market today?” John asked, sounding far too chipper. “I want to try to make a new recipe tonight, and I know there’s some ingredients you are bound to take issue with. I thought you could come with me and help me pick out food…”

Sherlock wished he had the strength to turn John down, to just stay in the flat and mope all day, but it had been several days without a new case. He might as well go. “Alright,” he said. “When?”

“Now!” piped John. “It’s a pretty time consuming recipe, I have to simmer the sauce for three hours, so the sooner the better.”

Sherlock nodded and heaved himself out of the kitchen chair to go change into street clothes. He pulled on a pair of black dress pants and his black button down shirt. He knew he’d look somber, but didn’t care. It was a somber sort of day.

He and John descended the stairs some time later and stepped out into the blustery, chilly morning. They went to a market a few streets over that had a good selection of fresh fruits and vegetables and whose meat they trusted to be high quality. 

John roamed the aisles, picking up an aubergine, some basil leaves, a head of garlic. “Do you like tofu? I’ve forgotten,” he asked Sherlock. Sherlock made a face and wrinkled his nose. “OK, never mind. No tofu,” John said through a laugh. His lightness was working toward lifting Sherlock’s mood somewhat, and he almost forgot that his main purpose on this trip was to be as dour as possible.

They rounded a corner and Sherlock stopped, stock still. There, standing in the aisle before them was Sandra. She had a small blond girl with her, looking to be around four or five, and a plastic shopping basket hanging in the crook of her elbow. She looked past Sherlock (who was now standing stiffly, as if the sight of her was a medusa’s gaze that had frozen him to the spot) and her eyes lit on John. “Hey there!” She said cheerily. “Imagine running into you again so soon!”

John’s head came up and his face broke into a bright, sunny smile, and Sherlock felt his heart twist inside his chest. 

“Hey! Sandra!” John exclaimed, stepping over to her, leaving Sherlock to stand awkwardly in the narrow aisle. John leaned in and kissed Sandra on the cheek and Sherlock swallowed thickly and stepped up behind John, suddenly very keen on injecting himself into this little reunion. 

“Hello little miss. Feeling any better from last night?” John asked, bending at the waist to address the little girl who was clinging shyly to her mother’s leg. 

“She’s feeling much better thank you,” Sandra replied, looking at John with a fond mix of gratitude and affection that had Sherlock broiling gently on the inside. “She knows now that eating too much and jumping about on the bed is a recipe for disaster, don’t you darling?” Sandra ran her fingers gently through her daughter’s downy blond hair and smiled at her. The small girl smiled back up and nodded. 

“Hello, I’m Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said, reached out a hand, desperate to introduce himself and stop being John’s silent shadow. 

“Oh! This is Sherlock!?” Sandra’s face broke into an even brighter smile and she took his hand and pumped it enthusiastically. “John’s told me so much about you!”

Sherlock smiled stiffly and put his arm around John’s shoulders. “I certainly hope it was all good,” he said, squeezing John closer to him protectively. He’d show this woman just how important John was to him. How Sherlock could not just be replaced so easily. 

John stiffened a little but did not pull away. 

“Yes, it’s all been good,” Sandra gave John a sly smile, and John’s cheeks flushed the way they did when he was embarrassed. 

“That’s a relief!” Sherlock said, giving John’s shoulder another squeeze before letting him go. 

“We're here picking out food for that curry I said I wanted to try,” John told Sandra. 

“Oh how lovely! Remember, it’s all about the temperature. Turn it down lower than you think it should go and just let it simmer for hours. I bet it will be delicious.” 

Sherlock felt another twinge of discomfort and envy. Sandra and John had talked about this recipe. They’d clearly talked about cooking, and probably lots of other things. Things that up until now, Sherlock had sort of assumed were only between him and John. He placed a proprietary hand on the small of John’s back, out of Sandra ’s view, and was pleased to feel John shiver a little at the intimate contact. He was suddenly feeling very possessive. 

“Well, we’ll need to get going. I’ve promised someone they can watch the new Dora the Explorer movie when we get home.”

“Dora! Dora!” exclaimed Sandra ’s daughter, tugging at her mother’s sleeve. 

“Yes Angie, I hear you. For the fifteenth time.” Sandra rolled her eyes at John and Sherlock. “It was so nice to see you. Let's get together again sometime soon,” she said to John. “Sherlock, it was lovely meeting you.” She gave Sherlock a final grin over her shoulder as her daughter tugged her toward the register.

“Yeah, I’ll ring you soon!” John called after her, still smiling. He turned back to Sherlock once she had rounded the corner and was out of earshot. “Well, that was fortuitous,” he said at Sherlock. “I was hoping you’d get the chance to meet her, and here she was!”

Sherlock nodded, but kept quiet on the subject. Sandra seemed a nice enough person, but she was still trying to pull John from Sherlock’s grasp and that made her  _ the enemy  _ . 

************************

They returned to shopping, and Sherlock helped John pick out the best brand of curry powder, and gave him some advice about which cuts of chicken would work best in a slow simmer sauce. Soon they were back out on the street and headed home, laden down with several plastic bags of groceries each. The sun was shining, golden stripes of it alternating with the dark shadows of the buildings they passed. Each ray of early afternoon sunshine lit up John’s silvery blond hair until it gleamed. 

Sherlock was quiet as he walked. He was plotting. Seeing Sandra had made him realize that he didn’t want to sit by and watch John date yet another woman. It had been alright before he’d realized his feelings for his flatmate, but now, it felt intolerable. 

He couldn’t simply demand that John stop seeing Sandra, but perhaps if he made it known to John how he felt. If he hinted at it enough, he could find out if John might one day share his feelings. 

One thing he did know, his newfound acknowledgment of his feelings for John would make the duration of John’s relationship with Sandra very difficult to take. It had only been easier before because he’d mislabeled what he’d felt as simple possessiveness. He’d thought of John as _his._ _His_ friend, _his_ companion, _his_ partner in solving crimes. He’d always had a possessive streak, only no one had ever brought it out this strongly. And so at first, he’d thought that’s what he’d been feeling. Like how he’d always get put out when Molly was busy with other work at the morgue and didn’t have time to help him. Or how he grew grumpy when Mrs. Hudson had a friend over when he, Sherlock wanted to chat. But this was different. This possessiveness was born out of romantic love, sexual desire. 

Sex was a thing Sherlock thought he’d never crave. Yes, his body told him when he needed a physical release, and he would take care of it, pulling himself to a swift, efficient orgasm, sometimes with the use of pornography, sometimes without. He approached the whole situation with the clinical outlook of a scientist. 

The fact that he desired John, the first person outside of a pornographic video that he’d ever looked at twice in a sexual manner was not immediately evident to him. At first, he’d written off the warm tingles he felt whenever John was near as simple affection. Or perhaps affection mixed with the nervousness of getting to know someone new. 

The day, the very moment that assumption had changed was etched into Sherlock’s mind in minute detail.

It had been several months ago. John had come home from work, looking tired out and irritable. He’d set down a bag of shopping on the kitchen counter and had been walking into the sitting room when he’d stumbled. His mobile phone had slipped from his grasp, gone skittering across the floor and had immediately slid across the smooth surface of the carpet and under the sofa. Sherlock had been sitting in his chair, observing the scene. He’d watched as John had huffed in frustration and dropped to his knees, bending over to reach under the sofa to fish around for his mobile, bum in the air, chest almost flush with the floor. He’d been turned to the side, in order to get a better grip on the errant device, and this afforded Sherlock an unobstructed view of how John’s jumper had rucked up, exposing a swath of his stomach to Sherlock’s attentive gaze. 

John’s stomach, so soft and pale, dusted with a fine layer of dark blond hair that disappeared into the waistband of his trousers. Sherlock’s eyes had immediately become glued to this small segment of skin between the bottom of John’s jumper and the dark band of his belt. He’d been struck with a sudden urge to press kisses against that exposed part of John’s belly, to press his face against that warm skin and soft hair. He imagined pushing his hands up under the edge of John’s jumper to feel John’s chest, his broad pectoral muscles under Sherlock’s fingers. The urge had taken his breath away with the strength, the immediacy of the desire he’d felt. 

All of a sudden, this obsession the rest of the world seemed to have with sexuality that had for some reason passed Sherlock by for the majority of his life, had come startlingly into focus. He wanted John. He  _ wanted  _ John. Not in some passing way. Not in an intellectual way. He wanted to take all of John’s clothes off, and then remove all of his own clothing and press their bodies together. Wanted to press his mouth against John’s mouth, to taste the other man’s lips and feel his skin, warm and mobile under Sherlock’s questing fingertips. 

After that, he’d suppressed those feelings relentlessly. He’d assumed that He simply had a type, and short, stocky men with dark blond hair shot through with silver were just his particular cup of tea. But when he looked at other men that reassembled John, he felt nothing. It was John Watson and only John Watson that he wanted. 

Now, walking home with John, laden with plastic bags full of groceries, watching John’s sturdy frame trudging along ahead of him, he felt a flash of shame. What would John say if he knew Sherlock had these feelings inside? Would he feel the incestuous twinge of revulsion one felt when someone one only ever saw as a friend confessed feelings that went in a juicer, more lascivious direction? Would John be kind and understanding as he broke Sherlock’s heart into a thousand pieces? Or would he back away, stiffen up, go cold? 

And yet despite all these fears, Sherlock felt he had to send out a clear invitation. He had to know for sure, so that he could put the issue to bed. He hoped he could do it in a way that afforded him plausible deniability. Where he could escape with his dignity and his heart intact.

They reached 221B and ascended the stairs. Both headed to the kitchen to deposit the bags on the counter. Sherlock then vacated to allow John time to putter about and put their purchases away where he wanted to. He was the resident cook after all, and he had a  _ system  _ . 

Sherlock retired to the sitting room, opening his laptop and staring blindly at a few web pages without actually absorbing anything. His mind was in the other room, with John. 

Eventually, after much banging about and opening and closing of drawers, John joined him, flopping down into the chair opposite him with a tired sigh. “It’s been a long week,” he said, wincing as he rubbed at that back of his neck. 

Sherlock was struck with a moment of inspiration. He’d seen John doing this, this rubbing of his neck and wincing thing several times today. It spoke of an issue John had that Sherlock could help with, while also allowing them to be physically close.  _ Perfect  _ . “Why don’t you let me massage your neck and shoulders,” he suggested, as if he’d just offered to pay for John’s cab fare or make him a cup of tea. Keeping it casual and off hand.

John froze, his hand still gripping the back of his neck, his eyes flying up to investigate Sherlock’s face. “Um…” he said, clearly confused. 

“It’s not that big a deal,” Sherlock felt a strong urge to validate and excuse his unusual offer. “I’ve learned a thing or too about massage and neuromuscular work in my dealing with anatomy and physiology. You’re in obvious discomfort. I can help if you want.” 

John seemed to silently weigh his options for a moment before nodding. “Ok, yeah, sure. Thanks. That would be great.” His voice was wary, but also curious. “Shall I…” he let the question hang, his eyes flitting to the sofa and back to Sherlock. 

“Come sit on the sofa and I’ll sit behind you,” offered Sherlock, verbalizing John’s silent question. 

John nodded and rose, wincing again at the crick in his neck. “Thanks,” he said. “You don’t have to do this, but I appreciate it. It’s been bothering me all day.” 

Sherlock sat, back propped against the arm of the sofa, one leg stretched out along the back of the seat cushions, the other hanging open, foot planted on the floor and patted the cushion between his legs. He saw John hesitate. 

“John, if this makes you uncomfortable, you don’t have to accept my offer,” Sherlock reminded him gently, wanting to give John ample opportunity to back out of this unusually intimate situation. But, they’d been touching casually for a few days now, under the guise that it would help Sherlock learn to be more personable, and so John was more comfortable than he’d ever been before with Sherlock touching him. At least, this is what Sherlock hoped. 

His hunch was apparently correct because John shook his head. “No, no it’s fine. I was just thinking about the mechanics of it.” He lowered himself onto the sofa, his back to Sherlock, bracketed by Sherlock’s long legs and settled in, his spine straight, shoulders a little tense. 

Sherlock took a deep, calming breath and placed his hands gently on John’s shoulders. He felt the other man relax a little into the touch and so he began kneading with his thumbs into John’s trapezius muscle. 

“Oh God, that’s lovely,” John moaned, slumping forward a little bit as Sherlock’s thumbs dug out some of the tension he’d been holding. “This  _ was  _ a good idea,” he added, his voice already gone lax and a little slurred. His head lolled forward as well, exposing the soft, pale back of his neck to Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock swallowed thickly and focused in on John’s massage, and away from the urge to press a kiss to the tempting bump of John’s C7 vertebrae, poking up above the collar of his jumper. The urge place a soft line of kisses, slow and deliberate up the back of John's neck. 

He transferred his hands from John’s upper back to the muscles running up the sides of John’s neck, and John made a whole new set of happy noises. Sherlock stroked his thumbs in strips from the base of John’s neck to the bundle of muscles at the base of his skull and then dug in there, kneading those muscles for a moment, while John turned to absolute putty in his hands. 

It was when Sherlock reached around to press his fingers into the oft neglected pectoral muscles that trouble arose. Sherlock was pressing into the muscles at the top of John’s chest, which naturally pulled the other man back toward Sherlock. He’d expected John to engage his abdominal muscles in order to stay upright. But, In John’s loose, relaxed state, he didn’t fight the momentum, and fell gently, almost subconsciously, into Sherlock’s arms. Suddenly, his back was flush with Sherlock’s chest. 

In an instant, the mood changed. John’s sweet smelling hair was brushing, softly against the side of Sherlock’s face, his warm, solid body resting against Sherlock’s chest and belly. He waited for John to realize that they were now practically embracing and sit back up again, but the other man stayed where he was, and Sherlock’s heart sang in response. 

The motion of Sherlock’s fingers, kneading into the tense sheets of John’s pectoral muscles ceased being about easing neuromuscular pain and took on a more sensual element. John let out a soft moan, and turned his head a bit to nuzzle against Sherlock’s cheek.

They had gone from one friend helping another, to the hot, electric promise of something sexual in a matter of seconds. Sherlock felt the messages coming from John’s loose, warm body against his, and John’s breathing was coming faster, his chest rising more sharply under Sherlock’s fingertips. 

“Sherlock,” John breathed, a gust of air escaping him in a half-gasp at the end of Sherlock’s name on his lips. “Sherlock,” he repeated softly, asking for something, telling Sherlock something. 

“John,” Sherlock said back, hearing how rough and deep his voice had gone. He felt his chest vibrate against John’s back, heard John’s low moan in response, vibrating back to him. He ceased massaging John and just let his hands rest against John’s front, halfway between chest and belly, feeling the warmth of him, the solidness of him in Sherlock’s arms. 

“Sherlock… I’m, I…” John seemed incapable of speech. He was nuzzling his cheek against the side of Sherlock’s, and Sherlock felt the draw of the other man’s lips, so close to his. All he had to do was to turn his head and capture John’s mouth with his own. He moved one of his hands, slid it slowly down John’s side and onto the top of the other man’s leg and John moaned again and writhed a bit beneath Sherlock’s palm and oh, that caused Sherlock to throb in response.

“ _ Fuck Sherlock  _ ,” John had resorted to profanity now, a sure sign that he was overwhelmed, only before this moment, it had always been from negative things.  _ Fuck, Sherlock! That was our stop!  _ Or  _ Fuck, Sherlock, you can’t say things like that, she’s just lost her husband!  _ This however was the first time John had said it because he was overwhelmed by passion, and the sound of that small couplet of words had effectively turned Sherlock into a heated mess. He let out a low rumble of a moan and pressed his lips to John’s temple, feeling a magnetic pull coming from the man in his arms. He had to kiss John, had to press his lips to John’s skin. Otherwise, he’d fly apart like so many dispersed particles. Was this what everyone else felt when they felt sexual desire? This insane pull? This hot urge that seemed to consume all of his senses in a silent, inner conflagration? 

In response to the soft kisses to his temple, John gasped a little and tilted his head back, against Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock kissed John’s zygomatic arch, his cheekbone, the tender flesh at the corner of his eye. This elicited another rough moan from John. 

They were so close to kissing one another on the mouth. John was writhing gently against Sherlock, rolling his hips a bit against the pressure of Sherlock’s hand that was still splayed out onto the top of his leg. He seemed overcome, insensible. Sherlock was breathing hard now too, and he was painfully erect inside his trousers. John must feel it. Did he like it? 

Sherlock was seconds away from turning his head to seek out John’s lips when the other man abruptly came to his senses. He sat up, taking a deep, shuddering breath, putting space between them, facing forward and burying his face in his hands. “Jesus, Sherlock, I’m sorry,” he said, his voice gone deep and ragged. 

Sherlock was momentarily stunned. It was difficult for him to switch gears that abruptly, and so he simply stayed where he was, panting, heart pounding, watching John with laser scrutiny, looking for indicators that John regretted what had just transpired. 

“Why are you sorry?” he asked, proud of the fact that his voice didn’t shake.

“I just...I know you offered me a massage to help with my neck, not for... whatever that was that just happened.”

“You didn’t want that. I understand,” Sherlock said, though inside, he felt as if someone had kicked his heart with a boot tip. 

“No, no. I… what just happened. It was great. It was wonderful. It...Jesus Sherlock. I  _ do  _ want that. I had just hoped to, you know, talk it over with you first. Figure out where you stand. Tell you some things. Not ask you for a neck massage and then throw myself at you.” 

“Then let’s talk.” Sherlock felt relief flood through him at John’s encouraging words. Talking was good, he could do that. 

“Well,” John sighed again, then scrubbed his face with his hands and glanced at Sherlock briefly before looking away again. “It might be obvious to you at this point, but I’ll tell you anyway. I’m attracted to men.”

Sherlock waited silently for him to continue.

“I’ve been bisexual my whole life, but I’ve always been really closeted. And what happened between us just now? That was probably the most I’ve ever done with another man. I mean, I kissed a bloke once, when we were both drunk at uni, and you and I haven’t kissed… not technically. Jesus, I’m babbling.”

“It’s alright,” Sherlock said, “you can babble. It’s perfectly ok to babble.” 

John gave him a stiff smile before continuing. “I grew up in the 80s and 90s. In a working class family. I went into the military. None of those environments were welcome for bisexual people. People would just assume I was gay and faking my attraction for women, and there might have been… repercussions. So I just kept quiet. And women liked me, a lot. And I love women!” He said it with a fervor that spoke of old validations of his sexuality.  _ I love women! I swear!  _

“So, it was just easier to keep dating women. Pursuing blokes I fancied felt daunting. Especially since I was never sure if they’d be interested, and I had zero experience dating men. And eventually, I just pushed the bisexual thing down and only thought about it when I saw a handsome bloke on the street, or when I was in the mood for some male-centered porn.” He sighed and sat back against the couch, and coincidentally, against Sherlock’s leg. The warmth of the contact felt grounding and reassuring for Sherlock, he hoped it did for John as well. 

“I knew I wanted you the minute I saw you,” John said, scrubbing fingers through his hair, not looking at Sherlock yet. “How could I not? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You were this stunning creature. Like some Greek statue come to life. And I thought to myself, ‘don’t be an idiot John. Moving in with this bloke will be torture for you’. But I did it anyway. The flat was incredible, and affordable, and then I got involved in helping you with cases, and we got closer. And before I knew it, I’d set up the perfect disaster scenario. Living next to this incredibly beautiful man who wasn’t interested in dating anyone, let alone me. Not a smart move.”

Sherlock remembered that first night at the restaurant in a flash. John tentatively probing for whether or not Sherlock was single. Sherlock swiftly shutting him down, telling John he was ‘married’ to his work. “I’m sorry,” he said out loud. “That night at Angelo’s… I didn’t know myself very well. I didn’t know you very well. Things have changed.”

John nodded, smiling softly. He looked over at Sherlock and their eyes met and Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat. “Are you open to relationships now?” John asked, getting right to the point. The fear of rejection written plainly across his face. It tugged at Sherlock’s heart.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “But only with you.” 

He watched the words as they hit John, watched his eyes light up with joy, watched his features arrange themselves in an expression of hope. It was a beautiful thing. Sherlock wanted to grab him and kiss him, but he stayed where he was, continued giving John space. “What about Sandra?” He asked, because despite all of John’s confessions of attraction, he’d still kissed Sandra, slept with her. Where was that going?

“We’re not together,” John replied, shrugging. 

“But...you had sex with her only last night,” Sherlock said, unable as usual to edit his blunt tongue. 

“No, I didn’t,” John replied.

“You...you took a shower when you came home. You only ever do that when you’ve had sex,” Sherlock said, a bit of an accusatory tone entering his voice, as if he could convince John that he had in fact shagged Sandra with the accurateness of his deductions. 

“Her daughter sicked up on me,” John said with a grin. “I was washing off child vomit.” He let out a ghost of a laugh. 

Sherlock nodded, but inside, he rejoiced silently. “So...you don’t want to date her?” 

“We had a talk,” John said. “On her end, dating a busy doctor who works part time chasing criminals down back alleys was not feasible. Not with her having young children. And for me…” he paused here, seeming to shore up his strength. “I told her I was interested in someone else. Someone who’d started showing signs of availability lately.”

“The touching,” Sherlock said. Perhaps his plan had worked better than he’d hoped. 

“Yes, the touching,” John let out a huff of a laugh. “You don’t know what that meant to me Sherlock. What it did to me.”

Sherlock gently extricated his leg from behind John’s back and moved to sit on the sofa, facing forward, next to John. “What do we do now?” he asked. 

“I don’t know,” John replied, shrugging. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to kiss you,” as soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sherlock knew he’d never wanted anything so badly in all his life. Not accolades, not money, not the most fascinating and complex cases to crack. Kissing John had shot to the top of his list of priorities with startling swiftness. 

“Oh, well,” John was momentarily stunned by Sherlock’s directness, and Sherlock used this beat of uncertainty to lean in and press his lips to John’s. Softly. Carefully. 

Time slowed down and stilled. The feel of John’s lips, that familiar shape Sherlock had caressed with his eyes so many thousands of times since they’d met, pressed against his own. It felt like nothing he’d imagined. Soft, warm. John was trembling just a little bit. 

Sherlock pulled back slowly and watched as John’s eyes fluttered open. “Was that alright?” he asked. “Should I have maybe-” he didn’t get any farther because John immediately leaned in and kissed him again, this time with more force. Sherlock let out a soft noise as a wild bloom of joy burst to life in the center of his chest at the return of John’s lips against his own. 

“Stand up,” John whispered, and Sherlock obliged, rising to his feet. John followed him up and then stepped into Sherlock’s embrace. He fit perfectly, his solid body filling in the space inside Sherlock’s arms as if he’d been meant for it. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders and felt John’s arms come around his waist and John tilted his face up for another kiss. Their lips came together so easily, and that felt right too. Like a puzzle piece slotting into place. Like when a clue spelled out the resolution of a case… just so. 

John’s tongue flitted against Sherlock’s closed lips and Sherlock opened his mouth a little to flirt back, and felt an electric tingle shoot through him as the tips of their tongues met and slid together. 

Despite the fact that this was the first real kiss Sherlock had ever experienced, it felt natural. Warm and good and thrilling. His brain obligingly shut off and let his body take the reigns, a thing that rarely ever happened to him unless he employed the use of class A narcotics or put himself into a trance. John’s kiss was putting him in a trance. John’s kiss was an effective drug. He lost himself in the movement of their mouths together. 

Sherlock grew braver, and the kiss soon grew messy, less coordinated. John was pressed against him, gripping Sherlock’s hips in his hands and Sherlock’s fingers had found their way into John’s hair, marveling at the softness of it. John moaned, low and needy, a sound that went straight to Sherlock’s core and caused a pulse of heat to erupt there. 

John pulled away, not far, just enough to speak. “What do you want?” he asked, flushed and pleasingly breathless. “We can just kiss if you want.”

“I want to go to bed,” Sherlock said, and watched as John’s eyes rolled back a bit at the sound of those words. “I want to be naked with you,” he added. 

“Oh fuck, Sherlock,” John moaned. “That’s a lovely idea.” 

Sherlock was growing to enjoy the sound of lust driven profanity on John’s lips. 

They went swiftly to Sherlock’s bedroom and undressed in a hurried, trembling, clumsy rush of fingers on buttons and hands pushing fabric up over heads trying to kiss the whole time, laughing breathlessly at the silliness of the task. After John, shirtless, pushed his trousers and pants down to the floor and stepped out of them, Sherlock held him still by the shoulders and took a long moment to gaze at his naked body. He let his eyes play over the thick muscles of John’s chest and shoulders, the one shoulder criss crossed with white scar tissue from the bullet that had almost taken his life. He gazed at the dusting of hair across John’s chest and followed the trail of it down to the patch of darker hair at his crotch, lingering on the sight of his thick, erect cock. 

Rather than making John shy or self conscious, Sherlock’s gaze seemed to inflame him. His breathing increased, his eyes stayed fixed to Sherlock’s face, watching Sherlock watch him. 

Sherlock had been mightily distracted by the reveal of John’s naked body and had stopped undressing himself, and so, after his eyes had drank their fill, he continued unbuttoning his shirt, shrugging it from his shoulders and dropping it to the ground. Then he undid and stepped out of his own trousers and pants. 

John’s eyes flicked down the length of Sherlock’s body with obvious hunger. “Oh god, Sherlock, you’re beautiful,” he breathed. Sherlock felt his face go hot at John’s lustful perusal, but he refrained from covering himself or turning away. John found him beautiful, even if he himself thought his body was gangly and pale and strangely proportioned. 

They stepped together, skin pressing against skin and John grabbed Sherlock’s neck, pulling him down into an eager kiss. The sensation of John’s naked body pressed against his own had Sherlock moaning into the kiss. This time, there was an urgency to the way their mouths moved together. A roughness and a hunger that haven't quite been there before. 

They found their way onto the bed and under the covers and embraced again, kissing in that same, urgent way. John made a surprised noise, a high pitched cry against Sherlock’s lips and Sherlock pulled back. “Are you alright?” he asked. This was new to both of them, and Sherlock didn’t want to push.

“Never been better,” John said, grinning. “I’m just incredibly turned on. You?” 

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Sherlock responded, feeling a small flash of anxiety. John sensed it and his eyes went concerned. 

“We can take our time. I forgot that this is a lot of firsts for you. Do you want me to touch you? Do you want to touch me? We can go slow.”

“I want to touch you,” Sherlock replied, wanting very much to explore John’s body with his hands, his mouth. John obligingly lay back, allowing Sherlock full access, and Sherlock threw the sheet back so that he could see what he was doing. He placed a hand on the center of John’s warm belly and John shivered under his touch. 

“You’re beautiful,” Sherlock said softly. John accepted the compliment silently, his eyes dilated with lust, flicked over Sherlock’s face. His mouth was open a little bit, panting with the strength of his arousal. Sherlock swept his hand up over John’s chest, over his shoulder, down to his waist, using long, warm strokes to feel his way. He was learning the topography of John’s body, slowly and deliberately. This was apparently quite pleasing to John, who moaned and pressed up against Sherlock’s hand with every change of location. When Sherlock slid his hand down to gently caress John’s cock, hot and full, John made a sharp noise and a gasp. “Is this OK?” Sherlock asked.

“It’s more than OK,” John replied, breathless. “It’s beyond OK.” 

Sherlock, pleased to hear that John was enjoying himself, scooted down on the bed until his face was level with John’s straining cock. He leaned over and experimentally delivered a soft kiss, halfway down the shaft.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John’s voice sounded rough and thick. “Fuck.” He seemed incapable of saying anything else, so Sherlock kissed him there again, placing a trail of soft kisses down the length of John’s straining prick, marveling at the heat and stiffness of the skin under his lips. He reached John’s warm, soft scrotum and nuzzled it gently with the tip of his nose, inhaling John’s delightful scent. 

John was watching him with dark, lust blown eyes, panting, overcome. “God, you’re beautiful.” He rasped out. “If you keep that up, I’ll probably come, just from looking at you.”

Sherlock was astonished. He’d been told by a few people that he was attractive. Those who’d dared anyway, being that he was a formidable sort of person, prone to verbal barbs and sarcastic comments. But he’d always assumed that they’d been mistaken, or were using flattery to gain his trust. Or that they simply saw the parts of him that conformed with societal standards of male beauty; his dark curls, his height, his long limbs, and had naturally just assumed he was handsome. The face Sherlock saw when he looked in the mirror though, small, wide set eyes, strangely shaped mouth, pale skin. Those features had never struck him as containing beauty. He thought he looked alien. Cold. Yet, when John called him beautiful, in that wrecked voice, he believed it. 

“Can I take you into my mouth?” he asked, hoping to change the subject, and because he desperately wanted to suck John. 

“Oh fuck. I’m not sure I could take that right now. I mean, you could technically do it, but I’d probably come in four seconds, so… Could I maybe touch you for a while?”

Sherlock nodded eagerly and moved up to lay next to John on his back. John was very verbal in his perusal of Sherlock’s body. He followed his hands with his mouth, kissing and praising Sherlock as he went. “Your skin, it’s like marble, like silk. Your neck, Jesus Sherlock your neck drives me mad. I’ve wanted to kiss it for so long.” John said this before lavishing Sherlock’s neck with open mouthed kisses, spreading heat and saliva across hypersensitive skin. He kissed Sherlock’s lips again briefly before traveling lower, placing soft kisses down Sherlock’s sternum and onto the top of his belly. “You have no idea how many times I thought about doing this,” he murmured into Sherlock’s stomach, his hot breath tickling and enticing. “Kissing you, touching you. Your fucking skin, it should be illegal to be this beautiful.” 

Sherlock felt himself flush with self conscious embarrassment even as John’s words and kisses thrilled him to the core. John picked up one of Sherlock’s long fingered hands and kissed the palm, then closed his eyes and sank Sherlock’s pointer finger deep into his mouth. The explosion of sensation this caused took Sherlock by surprise. “John,” he said weakly, thrusting a bit with his hips at the echo of sharp pleasure that bloomed there. 

John abandoned Sherlock’s fingers and returned his attention to Sherlock’s chest and belly, kissing lower and lower, whispering praises as he went. The feel of his mouth, hot and wet and soft, moving closer to Sherlock’s straining prick was driving Sherlock slowly insane. By the time John reached his destination and wordlessly looked up at Sherlock for permission, Sherlock could only nod, for his voice had entirely escaped him. 

John captured Sherlock’s cock in his mouth with a rough moan and sank down onto it, enveloping Sherlock in delicious heat and tingling pressure that took his breath away. “Oh god!” he gasped, throwing his head back, his mouth gaping at the ceiling, hands fisting in the sheets at his side. “Oh John, oh god, I…I...” He wanted to tell John all about what the other man’s mouth was doing to him. How the slick motion of John’s lips and tongue against his cock was making swells of sensation rise up inside him, choking him with pleasure, but he couldn’t speak. His orgasm rose up and burst through him without warning, and he heard John make an urgent, rough noise around his shaft as Sherlock’s cum flooded his mouth. 

The waves of pleasure washed through Sherlock for an indeterminate matter of time. It could have gone on for a few seconds or five straight minutes. For once, Sherlock’s precise brain shut off completely and surrendered to the pulses of bliss. And John took all of him, held him in that heat and closeness of his mouth through it all. Finally, Sherlock felt all the tension leave him and he collapsed, boneless and dreamy and gasping for breath, unable to move. John gently released him and climbed up to wrap arms and legs around Sherlock and kiss his flushed face. “Are you OK?” He asked, and Sherlock was surprised that he liked the faint smell of his own semen on John’s warm breath. He liked everything about John.

“I’m...I’m fine,” Sherlock said, finding speech difficult. “I didn’t know it could feel like that...with another person. I, I haven’t-”

“You should maybe just rest for now,” John said, through a warm chuckle. He knew Sherlock’s tendency to want to catalogue and analyze everything. Sherlock nodded and for a while they simply lay together, embracing as Sherlock’s heartbeat slowed from a gallop to a regular thump inside his chest. 

“How was that for you?” Sherlock asked. “You’d never done that before had you?”

John smiled against Sherlock’s chest. “It was amazing. I think I’ve found a new favorite hobby.”

Sherlock smiled up at the ceiling. “I support you in your endeavors wholeheartedly,” he said. 

He turned, rolled over and wrapped John up in his arms. “Can I return the favor?” he asked, enjoying the look this caused on John’s face. Anticipation and awe. 

“Oh god, yes, but only if you want to,” John was being careful, and Sherlock loved him for it. 

“I love you,” he said it, out loud. Without thinking. It just slipped from his mouth and into the air, natural as you please. “I love you John,” he said it again, deciding at the spur of the moment to be brave and hammer the point home. 

John’s face bloomed with a joyful smile. “I love you too,” he said, and Sherlock could tell he meant it, from the pure sunshine coming off his friend. 

Sherlock rolled over and on top of John, kissing him deeply, feeling the unbelievable pleasure of John’s body pressed into the mattress beneath his own. He kissed his way down John’s body, as John had done, following his lead, while John drove his fingers into Sherlock’s hair. He praised Sherlock, a thing he seemed unable to help from doing, calling him beautiful, telling him how good his mouth felt. “You don’t...you don’t know what this is doing to me,” he gasped. “Sherlock, Jesus, that’s a beautiful name.” 

Sherlock took John’s cock into his mouth and explored the tip with his tongue, testing out John’s taste, his heat and the shape of him. John gasped, and his hands in Sherlock’s hair tightened. 

Sherlock quickly discovered that sucking John was extremely enjoyable. Every move of his lips and his tongue caused John to make the loveliest noises, sharp moans, gasps, half-words and curses. It spurred Sherlock on. And while he was clumsy, and a bit uncoordinated, he must have been doing something right, for he soon felt John stiffen, his back arching above the mattress, calling out Sherlock’s name as he reached orgasm. Sherlock swallowed down the sour liquid, noting that while the taste wasn’t exactly pleasant, that the heat of the moment made it far more palatable, and the fact that it was evidence of John coming apart from Sherlock’s touches made it even better. Perhaps some experimentation needed to be done on that front... 

He crawled back up to John and settled by his side, and was surprised when John pulled his face close and kissed Sherlock deeply, sharing his own taste between them. There was much Sherlock needed to learn about sex, but he was finding the whole affair, if done with a naked John in his arms, to be extremely fascinating and appealing. 

“Did I do well?” he asked, still a bit uncertain in his skills, despite the fact that John had just made a volley of very happy noises while clenching his hands in Sherlock’s hair.

“you...You… did amazingly well,” John panted out, resting warmly in Sherlock’s embrace. “I will however need another demonstration soon so that I can check on your progress.”

Sherlock grinned. 

“I think that should be a dual practice. I need to check your progress as well.”

They fell asleep shortly afterward, as both of them had had an emotionally draining, physically tiring day. Even if the last hour of it had been spent in a highly enjoyable sort of physical activity. Sherlock drifted off with John wrapped up warmly in his arms, his face buried in John’s hair. 

For the first time in probably eight months, he slept the whole night through.


End file.
